Leaving, Not Running
by unilocular
Summary: Tony is leaving the team. Tim needs to know why. Tim and Tony friendship. Some light angst.


**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the typos. If you recognize it, it isn't mine.  
**

 **Title:** Leaving, Not Running  
 **Summary:** Tony is leaving the team. Tim needs to know why. Tim and Tony friendship.  
 **Rating** : Mild Teen  
 **Spoilers/Warnings:** General spoilers through Season 13. Some language and mentions of alcohol use.

 **Author's Note:** _For those of you following my other story, I apologize for the lack of update. One will be coming as soon as I find the inspiration and time. This idea just wouldn't leave me alone. When I wrote it, I set out to do two things:_ _tell the story about why I think Tony might be leaving the team and to do it_ _in under 1000 words. As you can tell by the word count, I failed miserably._

 _Hopefully, you still enjoy my failures. As always, any feedback and concrit is welcome._

 _-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

As soon as Tony DiNozzo opens his apartment door, Tim McGee forgets all about his careful planning. The choice words that he hoped would lead to the answers that he seeks— to the answers that he fucking needs right now—go up in smoke. Just past Tony's shoulder, Tim stares dumbfounded at the piles of boxes and the bare built-in bookcases.

Grinning, Tony leans into Tim's line of vision. "You brought me pizza and wine, McRomeo? All we need is a good movie and we've got a date night."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Tim blurts out.

The easy smile melts straight off Tony's face. "Tell you what?"

"That you were leaving." There is no accusation or anger in Tim's tone, just the desperation of a man trying to make sense of everything.

Instantly, Tony's back goes rigid. When he retreats into his home, Tim is hot on his heels. Together, they collapse onto the couch with a familiarity that they haven't shared in years. Some black and white movie Tim doesn't recognize plays on the television, mixes with the low lamp light to cast the living room in a dim, inviting glow. A single highball glass, half-empty with an amber liquid, sits next to a bottle of single Malt Scotch. It's the one Tim gave him when he became team leader after Gibbs hightailed it for the Mexican border.

Date night. The thought almost makes Tim laugh.

To him, it doesn't look like Tony even wants company. Rather, the set-up looks like he might be getting ready to run for his life… _again._

The ice in Tony's scotch glass clink as they dissolve into nothingness. Tim drinks what little bit is left before Tony refills it. Tim finishes that too while Tony takes a swig straight from the bottle. The burn of the alcohol bites the back of Tim's throat long before it takes the edge off, long before it grants him the courage to find his answers.

"When were you going to tell me?" he asks.

"Later, McGee." Tony stares at the television screen without watching. "You and Bishop weren't supposed to find out until later."

Tim jabs his finger accusingly at the moving straps wrapped around Tony's baby grand. "This looks a hell of a lot like later to me, Tony. What were you going to do? Send us a postcard from halfway around the world?"

"It might have been easier." Tony offers a sad half-smile.

"I would have found you." The Scotch makes Tim a little too sure of himself. "If you used a credit card anywhere in the world, Tony, I would have been on your doorstep in less than 24 hours."

Tony glances over, not sure if Tim is serious or joking. When he realizes that Tim means every word, he laughs hysterically. "I guess I'm never charging anything ever again, McBloodhound. G-d knows that you coming off an all-nighter would scare off any lady crazy enough to come home with me."

Tony laughs again. Tim doesn't.

After letting out a broken sigh, Tony digs into the pizza that Tim brought as part of his peace offering. The cheese is congealed into a frozen mass with bits of pepperoni trapped in the now-solid fat. It was warm when Tim first arrived at Tony's building before he spent hours in the car trying to decide just what to say.

 _Not like it mattered anyway._

Tony makes a face at the pizza, then he eats it anyway. "The best way to my heart is with a hot slice, McGee. This might get you sloppy seconds, if you're really, _really_ lucky."

"I'll try to remember that for next time," Tim says, but they both know there won't be one.

Silence curls up around them like an unwanted third wheel on—what Tony probably considers to be—their very manly date night. Tony demolishes half the pizza. Tim downs more of Tony's Scotch than he'll later admit. They watch the movie blur into another one with equally bland characters and a similarly forgettable plot. It's a welcome alternative to discussing why Tim is really here.

And he doesn't mind, really. While he sits here at Tony's side, he can pretend that his friendship doesn't have an expiration date and that the world as he knows it isn't ending.

Eventually, Tony breaks the silence. "If you came to change my mind, Tim, you won't."

The way Tony says it almost sounds like he and Tim are back in the bullpen lobbing ideas like tennis balls. It sounds like they're knee-deep in their pissing match to convince the other that their suspect is the murderer. For the first time in his career, Tim already knows he can't win.

So he shifts back against the cool leather couch and abandons all of his carefully calculated plans.

"I just need to understand." Tim's words come like a breath.

Tony leans forwards, elbows resting on his knees. "I can't stay."

"Why?" Tim licks his lips. "Help me understand, Tony. Please."

"One day, I woke up." Even though the words are cryptic and strange, Tim doesn't interrupt. He just listens as Tony rambles on: "I realized that everything we do is just the same thing over and over again. Dead petty officer in Rock Creek Park. Then Gibbs rides our asses until we solve it and catch another case. Same thing every damned day. It's like lather, rinse, repeat with dead people."

Tim discovers surprising wisdom in Tony's logic.

Tony huffs. "I kept thinking I would have all the time in the world. But that's not the case, Tim. I'm getting older every day and I just need a change. Something." Then he adds with a desperation Tim sometimes feels. "Anything."

"Is there a reason why you're…" Tim almost says _running,_ but he chooses a more diplomatic "…leaving?"

But Tony catches on to the slip-up. "I'm not running away from something, but to someone." Tony quirks an eyebrow. "It's the same thing I expected you to do after Delilah headed for Dubai, McLoverBoy."

"It never was the right time."

Tony smiles sadly. "It never is until you say enough's enough and follow your heart."

"So that's the big secret? You're quitting NCIS for a woman?" Tim leans over, interest piqued. "Who is it? Zoe? Jeanne?" The furrow in his brow deepens. "Ziva?"

Half-smiling, Tony just shakes his head. Tim has the grace not to press, to let Tony keep his secrets. If Tony chose to walk away from a long and well-received career, he must deem his lover worthy of sacrificing his entire life. And for Tim, that's all he needs to know.

"Have you told Gibbs yet?" Tim asks.

"I think he already knows. I like to chalk it up to that whole psychic gut of his." Tony forces a laugh and Tim fails to match it. "He probably knew I was ready to leave long before I realized it. But once I get settled, I'll probably send him a post card."

Tim bites his lower lip. "I doubt he'll appreciate that."

"It's not like we've really talked since I got back from Shanghai." A pained frown cuts across Tony's face. "What do you think he'd do when I tell him that I'm leaving the agency? He'll probably just grunt and remind me to finish my reports before my last day."

Tim doesn't even try to argue with Tony's reasoning. He just nods like a bobblehead.

"After sixteen years, I deserve better," Tony says so quietly that it's almost to himself.

Tim pours himself another Scotch. "We all do."

But Tony can't bring himself to respond. Instead, he just flumps back against the couch and stares out at his near-empty apartment. From the flash of regret in Tony's eyes, Tim believes the consequences of his actions just hit him like one of Gibbs' famous head slaps.

When Tim passes his friend the Scotch, Tony downs it in a single gulp.

"When do you…" Tim can't say the word again.

Tony loosens his tie. "Next Friday is my last day. The movers come on Saturday and I fly out of Dulles on Sunday."

"Where?" Tim asks quietly.

Tony holds up a finger. "Nice try, McSherlock."

They both know that Tim will figure out where Tony is headed as soon as he gets near a computer with an internet connection.

Suddenly, Tony lets out a labored sigh. "Speaking of movers, I should probably get back to packing. I think you need more work in the romance department, Tim. Cold pizza and serious conversation is not the right way to a girl's heart." He manages a weak smile. "Or mine, for that matter."

Tim laughs to release the tightness in his chest. "I'll stay and help you pack."

"Shouldn't Delilah be – "

"She knows I'll be back late. Plus, I've had too much booze to drive."

"Suit yourself, McGee. Just don't expect me to show you how much I appreciate your help when we're done." Tony shoots Tim his trademark shit eating grin. Tim is thankful for the normalcy. "And if you spend the night, you're making me breakfast."

"Of course."

Together, they fall into a rhythm of packing up Tony's possessions into boxes. After he nearly drops an antique porcelain statue, Tim is relegated to labeling the boxes. His usually pristine and steady script has taken on a shaken and crooked and awkward tilt. He tells himself that it's just the Scotch.

The hours tick by as they work in a steadfast silence. Two people so accustomed to the other's presence-and the other's thoughts-that they know what the other is doing without needing to check in.

When the first traces of morning light sneaks through the blinds, Tim frowns at how cold and disparaging the apartment looks when it's completely empty. Defeated and nearly sober, he sinks onto the couch to watch Tony chase dust bunnies out from behind the baby grand piano.

"Tony, you'll still keep in touch with me, right?" Tim glances away, surprised he even needs to ask. "E-mails and phone calls, right?"

Tony's shocked face pops up from behind the piano. "Of course, Tim. Everyday. Just because I'm leaving Gibbs doesn't mean I'm leaving you and the team."

Tim morosely half-nods.

"But you've got to make me a promise too," Tony shoots back.

Tim's eyebrows jump. "What's that?"

"Just don't track my credit cards."

Tim just smiles at Tony and reaches for the Scotch because he knows it's a promise he'll never be able to keep. The knowledge that his friend is safe and happy and loved is something that will comfort Tim long after Tony vanishes into the ether. And for Tim, the way to know that isn't through what Tony says in e-mails and phone calls, but through hard data and spending habits.

He sinks back into the couch with a slice of ice cold pizza in one hand and a full glass of Scotch in the other. He never thought about how cold and removed he grew in his own life until this moment when he realizes he doesn't fully trust Tony at his word.

As he watches his friend return to his dust bunny round-up, Tim wonders whether it might be time for him to reevaluate his own life. Maybe, just maybe, his time to jump from the team is coming.

And maybe it's much closer than he ever thought.


End file.
